Two Roads

My best friend from second grade found me on Facebook the other day. “Emily added you as a friend on Facebook.”

Emily and I sat next to each other the first day of Mrs. Hamblin’s class. She told me that she thought I was pretty, and it all happened really fast after that. During recess, we ran together to the swings. She offered to push, and I jumped off at the highest point, landing perfectly - a move that I had practiced all summer. I was showing off for her, and she dutifully squealed with delight at my athleticism. A week later, she asked me to be her best friend, and I accepted.

Emily was Mormon, which meant nothing to me at the time. The fact that she couldn’t smoke, drink alcohol, or have coffee did not matter since I couldn’t do those things either. When you are 7, you don’t find that you have a lot of lifestyle differences with other 7 year olds. Compatibility meant a preference for swings over the seesaw, appreciation for each other’s mother’s cooking, and hating the same kids in our class.

She was six months older than me, which meant that she was responsible for me. She braided my hair, shared her Lunchables with me when my mom packed me tuna, gave me half her Halloween candy haul when I was too sick with chicken pox to go trick or treating, and protected me from cooties.

My life in 1992 revolved around her.

When my parents told me that we were moving to California that summer, we both cried and plotted to run away together. Our plan was foiled by the fact that we were 7, and so, I moved and we promised that we’d be friends forever. We wrote each other faithfully for the rest of that summer - letters of longing and loneliness, always ending with vows of never forgetting each other.

I thought we’d be pen pals forever, but summer ended, third grade began, and I was distracted by learning cursive, Disneyland, new strains of cooties, and I left two of Emily’s letters unanswered. By the third week of school, I had a new best friend, Cindy Lee. (who, by the way, turned out to be a total bitch.)

Anyway, I accepted Emily’s Facebook request, and scrolled through the 87 pictures she had. In them, she is having potlucks with friends, rock climbing with a guy whose frequent appearance suggests that he is the boyfriend, cooking dinner, camping by the ocean, and hanging out with family.

In none of the 87 pictures is she appearing to be drinking or have been drinking any alcohol. She was probably just like she was in second grade – happy and wholesome.

Meanwhile, my alcohol abuse is emblazoned across the 250 pictures I have on Facebook—my friends and I at the club with Cuervo shots in hand, me doing a keg stand in college, me doing a keg stand last week, wine at dinner, mimosas at brunch, Stetsons, Adams Mill, etc. etc. etc. It’s all constant partying, shots flying, cigarettes dangling – servitude to the moment.

When did this happen? How did Emily and I grow up to be such different people? Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I chose the one that took me to the wrong side of the purity scale.

So as an experiment, I’m going to declare October to be Responsible Drinking Month. During this time, I will adhere to the Three Drinks Rule. But since it’s still September, I’ll be doing some shots at Stetsons later, if anyone wants to join.